It's Gotten Me Thinking
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: Events with Bra'tac cause General Hammond to begin to see things clearly.


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Title: **_It's Gotten Me Thinking 1/1_**

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Author: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

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Feedback: Onlist or to mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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Author Website: 

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Rating: PG-13

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Pairing: George Hammond/F (in the past), George Hammond/Bra'tac (UST),

Jack/Daniel (always!)

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Category: Slash

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Date: September 12th, 2003

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Status:Complete

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Series: None

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Season/Spoilers: Through Season 5.

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Archive: Alpha Gate. Area 52. Jackdaniels. Anyone else please ask.

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Synopsis: Hammond begins to see things clearly.

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Notes: I'm very uncertain about this piece. I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read it. This was a bit of a challenge to myself, since

I have trouble writing General Hammond, and I have wanted to do a piece involving him for a while. Here it is, I guess. Huge thanks to Ayashii for the beta job-- you're an absolute gem, my dear. Thanks also go to Leaper182, Ionah and Darcy. Just because, you know. Feedback makes me an incredibly happy girl-- I'll even kiss your ring. Or give you a ring and then kiss it, if you don't have one already... *confused* Oh, dear... I think I missed the point. ;-) Seriously, any comments will be treasured, as I'm dearly afraid this piece sucks.

Warnings:

A

R

N

I

N

G

S

P

A

C

E

Mentions of Het. Old song references. Light swearing.

DISCLAIMER: Do I look like I'm in charge? Didn't think so. Needless to say,

I do not own Stargate. I don't even own the couch I'm sitting on! Our beloved SG-1 is property of Double Secret Productions, Showtime/ Viacom,

MGM/UA, and Gekko Productions. All of these groups have some very scary lawyer people in dark suits, so I am not going to mess with them. Even though they should be taking better care of our colonel and his pet archaeologist. The only thing I own is the idea for the story itself. Feel free to email me if you want to archive or link to this fic-- I'd be honored. 

DATE STARTED: September 9th, 2003

DATE FINISHED: September 12th, 2003

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It's Gotten Me Thinking 1/1

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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I'm missing you, Alegria. Tonight, more than usual, I suspect-- you know I miss you every day, sweetheart, but the loneliness is right next to me now. I guess I feel a little guilty, as the feeling surprised me, being so fresh. Memory doesn't alot for intensity, but you must know that. That must be what death is-- when the pain fades to a manageable level and you can start to remember the good times. I do remember them, Alegria. I remember them with you.

The sun's been down a bit, now-- the world is kinda blue. Singin' the blues. If I had the energy, I'd get this old rump of mine outa the chair and put on Connie Francis. "Who's Sorry Now?"-- do you remember? But it's on a CD, all shiny and new, and the song just ain't the same without the scratch of the needle on a '45 going round. So I'll sit here with a beer warming in my hands and a light blanket pulled up over my aching bones. Gettin' old is one thing after another, isn't it? The fireflies are all around where your rose bushes used to be. I'm sorry I let the place grow over, but I couldn't take care of it. Never had the gift with living things you did; couldn't even make the strawberries grow up right. I dowsed them in sugar, I thought of you.. they tasted sour. So, no more roses, at least not here. Jack-- I told you about Jack, young (well, _younger_) cocksure Colonel in my command-- he's got a nice green thumb. Backyard full of flowers, roses too. Yellow, like the ones you were fond of, and also lilies and azaleas and pansies...

I'm snorting a bit at that last word, honey. Forgive me-- Lord, I wish I wasn't thinking so much tonight. Mind trips you up, it does, runs in circles when all you want to do is sleep. It's a crude joke, too; 'pansies'. I feel sorry for making the association. I mean, who decided to equate that particular flower with that particular lifestyle?

Betchyou anything Dr. Jackson would know. 

The world seems a funny place, right now. Maybe more so than after I saw the event horizon for the first time. You kinda prepared me for that-- gawky, pigtailed girl with your pulp Sci Fi novels. "The Stars My Destination"-- yeah, you read that one to me when I was down with the flu. Farm country was our home, so your were sure you'd see a pattern in the corn one day. I made a crop circle for your birthday-- I know you remember that. Boy, your Daddy whipped the tar outa me and then some, not to mention my father gett'n ahold of me. But, sweetheart, it was worth it. God, if you could see what I got under my mountain now... well, I think, had you lived, I wouldn't have been able to keep my oath of secrecy. Your crop-circle aliens are from a whole other galaxy; why they bother with corn I sure as hell don't know, and no one can really ask the Asgard for a straightforward explanation. Little gray men with big, black eyes; they named a ship after Jack. It's prob'ly a good thing it got blown up, or we'd have never heard the end of that one. 

There's answers out there, Alegria, just like you wanted. There are giants and treasures and things you didn't dare to dream of. And there are 'gods'. Maybe it's just as well you don't know, my dear-- you'd laugh at me, but I guess I never stopped seeing you as that freckle-kissed girl next door. My best friend, worst enemy, and the one who dropped frogs down my drillies. You always had more faith in people than I do, and if even I think about the Goa'uld... sometimes, the universe is awful big and lonely. It can break your heart, I guess. 

Dr. Jackson-- his wife was taken by the snakes. That's what Jack calls the Goa'uld-- snakes-- and it's caught on. But anyway, Jackson's wife was kidnapped, became a prisoner in her own body. That's a horror that was previously regulated to cheesy double-features showing at the Paramount down town. Something that hissed away from the streetlights as we walked home together, laughing nervously. It sure is real now. I never did meet the young girl, though by all accounts she was sweet and quiet, with a sharp eye. Dr. Jackson seems to have loved her...

This is the thing, I guess. I can't stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I try. Just keep coming back to the same fork in the road. Dr. Jackson was married, and I know that Jack was... I've even seen his ex-wife around, once in a while. 

It doesn't _bother_ me. At least, not in the way that the Air Force would think it should. I just never _thought_ about it. I mean, I guess I knew there were people 'like that', but it just wasn't something that concerned me. I bet you're laughing at me, now. You're saying, 'Georgie, you ain't a big dumb kid. Don't let those boys tell you that. You've got thoughts, and I like 'em. I like them really well.' We both dreamed of the world outside our small town; I've seen so much, but I guess some things are still out of my sphere. Like starving to death... no one in America can really understand that fear, but in Africa there are mothers so thin they can't even give their babies milk. I imagine my own job is unimaginable to most people. It's like that. So.

I'll start from the beginning. I know you're getting impatient with me.

Not really the beginning, but close to it, anyway. My office, on base-- I was sweating in my regular uniform 'cause we'd had another close call with SG-1. 'The Kids', I kinda think of them. They traipse from one scrape to another like they don't have a care in the world, like they're gonna live for ever. I've seen what happens when they realize they can't, but somehow they just pick right on up again, laughing, sticking their tongues out at forces far greater than they. Sometimes, when they go through the 'gate, I can't help but cross my fingers. We just don't know what's out there. 'Young', the other races call us-- and that's when they're feeling polite. I'll be the first one to admit that we don't have half a clue as to what we're doing, but we can hardly turn back now. We just got to pay as we go. SG-1 has so far managed to have enough change on them when the going gets tough. And thanks to them, we do have a few friends in high places.

I know mission details bore you, my dear-- suffice to say that the SGC's flagship team had a run in with a minor Goa'uld on a planet we thought was deserted. I'm going to have to widen the range of our UAV, or else get myself a working crystal ball. SG-1's reputation preceded them-- we Tau'ri (as the others in the galaxy call us) are making quite a name for ourselves, unexpectedly knocking off 'gods' and 'goddesses' every now and then. I suppose that makes us a little cocky. Turns out, the Goa'uld (who's name I won't even pretend I remember how to spell) thought the heads of my flagship team would make for a nice bargaining chip. I'm sure Colonel O'Neill's mouthing off didn't help. Or perhaps it was Dr. Jackson-- still waters run deep, as they say, and his linguist's tongue can cut mighty quick. Oh, not to worry, there was no permanent damage, though O'Neill did receive a rather harsh blast from a hand-device. Sometimes I do have to wonder whether those things can leave long term damage. The cavalry, as it were, consisting of myself, SG teams 3, 5 and Master Bra'tac, arrived just in time. I've been flying a desk for a long time now, Alegria, and I'll admit that going off world gives me a rush to rival the ones from my youth. I suppose I ought to feel a bit guilty, but I have to tell you that sometimes that high is all you're going on. Even Teal'c concedes that, at times. 

Teal'c. There's a man I have come to admire, as I never thought I would. I am honored to consider him a friend, and in some ways, a teacher. He does Master Bra'tac proud-- I can see it in the old warrior's eyes. It must be the same look I get on my face when I SG-1 comes through that wormhole, having successfully rescheduled armageddon. 

We were two victorious soldiers, Bra'tac and I, having our informal briefing in my office. I always feel somewhat obliged to entertain any aliens while they're on base, waiting for SG-1 to clean up and get the facts together. I suppose my mother raised me right, then. Well, I don't have a parlor, so my office it was. I think I was praising Master Bra'tac's grasp of the concept of 'less is more' (we only had two zats at our disposal for half the fight), when...

Well, darling, how do I put it?

I'm imagining you sitting on the porch railing now, leaning over at me, that small chin of yours resting in your hands. 'Well,' you'd say, 'spit it out. Burning daylight, dear Georgie.'

He told me he would be honored to share his bed with me, Alegria. In celebration of our many victories, and to show his respect for a fellow warrior. 

I think I may have actually blushed, though I couldn't feel my face at all for a time. It was like taking a step out of phase-- to use one of Major Carter's terms-- an alteration of my perspectives. It was so unexpected, yet it was clear by Bra'tac's regal baring that he was making this offer to me as an equal. As if it was something by due coarse. I admire the man; he gives me hope that my time as a useful soldier isn't quite over yet. Hell, he's at least twice my age and regularly inciting rebellions. 

I remember Dr. Jackson saying something about how more recent monotheistic religions had done us a disservice by making sex seem dirty. In pagan cultures, sex was often a form of worship. It was at a briefing with one of our diplomatic teams, I believe, when he said that; his point was that we shouldn't judge other cultures based on our own ingrained beliefs. Keep an open mind. Judge not, ye who would be judged. 

I have no idea how long it was until I spoke, because Bra'tac's face gave away no change, no concern. At last, I said something along the lines of how the Tau'ri military did not operate in that fashion, and that the customs of my people forbade me to consider his offer. He raised a single eyebrow at that, though not with the same skill as Teal'c. 

"Is this truly so?" he inclined his head, looking very old and wise. 

"Master Bra'tac," I was operating on autopilot, "on this world, it is considered by many to be... inappropriate for two people of the same gender to engage in," I swallowed, "intimate relations. This belief is very strongly held by the government I serve." I felt those stars on my shoulders as I never had before, glancing down at your picture, perched on my desk.

Nodding slowly, he replied, "In many ways, your race is still quite young." He caught the direction of my gaze, and came to study your photo. I think you'd remember the one-- taken just before the doctor's breathed the horrible word of 'cancer'. You're standing near the old barn on my parents' property, wearing jeans and one of my old shirts, hair dark about your face. You said you wanted me to remember you, alive and smiling like that, not as you were before the end. I should tell you, Alegria, that I still thought you were beautiful, even then. "This is your wife?" Bra'tac sounded surprised.

"Yes," I found my throat was tight. "She passed away about seven years ago."

"That is most unfortunate," he took my hand in a gesture of confident strength. "My own Saoh'ri was lost to the mysteries of birth giving, over four decades ago." Smiling sadly, he cast another glance at your silver-framed image, "You are fortunate to carry a reproduction of your wife's image. Such things are not allowed by the Goa'uld. My memory fails me."

Our hands were still joined-- I did, sweetheart, I did feel quite close to this comrade in arms, this alien. 

"I apologize for making, what must seem to you, such a reprehensible request, Hammond of Texas." I couldn't help smiling then, Bra'tac said it so solemnly. Jack's fault, again; only O'Neill would describe his commanding officer as being 'very brave and very bald'. 

"Not reprehensible," I corrected, surprising myself, "just impossible." 

We stood there for some time-- and the briefing that followed passed without incident.

In a way, I suppose I wish that had been the end of it. An old man doesn't like to be faced with the changing world-- though in a way, that's a laugh. To me, the whole damn universe has under gone a change, but I think sometimes that everyone working in the secrecy of Cheyenne has to kinda turn a blind eye. It works like this: there may be alien parasites running around with doomsday weapons, acting on grudges older than we can imagine; there may be little gray men from another galaxy beaming people up and struggling against a mindless machine-- but Earth remains blissfully ignorant. We can pretend the concerns of the galaxy only weigh on us from nine to five. The minute we walk out into the cool evening air, we go back to 'reality', which is very much a dream. I wish I could explain it better, Alegria, I may have more to say than some, but I don't think I always say it well. Point is, I'm sitting here on my back porch, hankering after a cigar (I know, I know; getting too old for that, too), and it feels like I couldn't possibly have been running around with a century-and-a-half old alien earlier this afternoon. How strange this life is. 

Remember when our music used to drive our parents nuts? When Marilyn Monroe was daringly risqué? When we longed to bust out of our small town and find the real world? Mornings, I wake up and wonder who that man in the mirror is. I guess part of my brain just stopped around 1973, maybe in that picture of you, me and the baby at the Grand Canyon, all of us smiling. My bed is too wide and my bones too cold with all this extra padding I've put in. Shit, honey-- excuse me-- I _am_ an old man.

I must have looked like one, sitting in the briefing room after everyone had left, staring off into the big nothing reflected on the surface of the desk. When I looked up, Doctor Jackson had stopped in the threshold, pulling the Colonel back to stand with him. Bless his heart, he asked me if I was alright, and I said that I was, still making no move to stand.

"Thinking great thoughts, mon general?" Jack asked, taking in my pensive position. 

"I don't know," I said honestly, shaking my head. "I think," I tapped my pen as they came fully into the room, "I think I was just issued a proposition." Now, I didn't say anything more than that-- I was mighty surprised that even that little bit came forth, but I guess the day's events had loosened my tongue. But Colonel O'Neill, his eyes narrowed and he asked with low tones;

"Master Bra'tac?" I must have looked taken aback, because he added, "It's a Jaffa honor thing." 

"I might ask how you would know that," I said, trying to be gentle.

He just elbowed Daniel, "I thought you explained some of the Tau'ri's weird hang-ups to Teal'c."

"I did..." Doctor Jackson stammered, looking at me over the frames of his glasses, "It is a sign of respect, General. The Jaffa aren't very private when it comes to sex. Or most anything else for that matter." 

I managed a small smile, "I figured as much." Somehow, every now and again, the man who unlocked the Stargate manages to look all of a very precocious fourteen. If we'd had a son, sweetheart, I would have wanted him to be like Daniel. 

"And hey," Jack snapped his fingers, "over sixty and still knock'n em dead, eh, George!" I couldn't help but snort my laughter, as those two bid me goodnight and headed for the surface. 

Eventually, I went topside too, driving familiar roads, the thoughts in my head rather loud and tumbling into one another. When I stopped in the grocery, I couldn't help but look at the shadowed faces there. You know, the people you glance at in the crowd, but never really see? I was thinking about numbers, about how I once read in the paper that one in ten people is... well, what _is_ the politically correct way to put it? The statistic musta kinda lodged in my mind, 'cause damned if I remember where I heard it. One in ten. And other numbers, too, such as the number of the regulation for 'don't ask, don't tell'. Actually, I don't know if it has a number-- but those paper-pushers in Washington do so love to catalogue, so I imagine it does. The law of averages, and the law that governs my officers, the people under my command. 

The laws that govern me. 

I feel kinda watched, in a way. Tell a man he can't fly and he'll sprout wings just to show you, I guess. What Master Bra'tac offered me wasn't a dirty thing, Alegria. I didn't turn him down because I was horrified; I did so because I made promises to you in front of God that I don't think end with death. And because, at my age, can you really teach an old dog new tricks? 'Course, Bra'tac is, as I've said, at least twice my age, so there goes that. 

I'd hope I'm not a bad person for wondering, just a little, what it might be like. Something exchanged in honor. In celebration of victory. 

You know I love you, honey, and I can't help thinking you might be a little amused. 

Then, to top it all off, I come out of the store with my lone plastic bag, prescriptions jingling, and I turn my head when I hear a familiar voice shout. There's Doctor Jackson, in the parking lot of Blockbuster, playing keep away from my second in command. He was holding the tape high in the air, Daniel was, and doing his damnedest to keep just a step or so ahead of Jack. The scuffle continued as they stumbled backwards into the empty lot next door, and the Colonel got the upper hand. 

'Show you to mess with an old soldier, Space Monkey!' O'Neill raced back to the car, with Daniel following him-- they were still laughing when they climbed in his truck. 

Damn it. I didn't see _nothing_ Alegria, not one thing, except how Jack's face was no longer like a mask, and how he was smiling in the shine of the streetlights. And Daniel, he ran away to get caught-- he let Jack pinch him and dropped the tape. It can't be like that, I'd know if it was like that (wouldn't I?), and it's only that I just had my own beliefs questioned that I'm seeing things at all, now. Projecting, like they say. Doctor Jackson often goes back to Colonel O'Neill's for leave, and Jack won't stray five feet from the hospital bed if the boy gets injured and I do, I do remember the look on his face and his hold on the hockey stick as he smashed my car window. 

It's none of my business. It makes me no never mind-- not George, not the off-duty soldier standing in Kroger's parking lot. 

I serve my God and my Country. 

My country has a mighty ugly underbelly, I know, but that's not what I'm fighting to save. Good with the bad, and all that. 

Who's to say there's a God, huh? I don't even know myself any more, though Ma would tear me up one side and down the other if she was alive to hear it. Armies have fought under all sorts of different rules; Teal'c and Bra'tac are two of the strongest warriors I know-- who's to say their knowing exchange of glances hasn't taken place in the bedroom as well, and who's to say it matters? 

Who's to say I know what the hell I'm talking about? I'm an old man with heartburn and an all-too-empty house. It's a mighty funny place we live in, this galaxy-- a heck of a lot stranger than any one would give credit for. Is there a heaven where you're looking down on me? 

Sweetheart, seeing those two laughing like boys-- well, it reminded me of us, playing hide and go seek in the cornfield. Riding bare back on a horse and clinging to each other instead of a saddle. If it's anything like that, if it's anything like that feeling, I could never say it was wrong. 

I love you and miss you, Alegria. I do hope to see you someday soon. 


End file.
